


for want of a nail

by irrelevant



Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Age Difference, Bruce's Issues Are Legion, F/M, Identity Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-22
Updated: 2011-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrelevant/pseuds/irrelevant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Steph as Bruce's Robin isn't the best thing ever, it's pretty damn close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for want of a nail

The monitor creaks again, and you hear something start to give—

And she catches herself, shifting her weight at the last possible second.

“Check it out, boss,” she says, breathless in her triumph, and the keyboard shifts under your fingers with the creak and sway, and you don’t look up.

You say, “If you have the energy for that, you can run the course again,” and she groans (moans), she whines (whimpers), and she’s vertical and then she’s not, toppled down into your lap.

Straddling you, _smiling_ at you, for you, and she’s on you, touching you, she’s so _close_ —

She has Dick’s joy. Jason’s fearlessness.

You don’t know what Tim has given her, if anything.

You’re not sure you want to know, but you need—

You _should_ know.

But she’s laughing now, hands (gauntlets, rusty streaks on banged up green) on your shoulders and you are—

(so _glad_ )

Relieved she’s still wearing the mask. That you are wearing the cowl.

And she’s kneading your shoulders (strong grip, stronger than last week and you’ll make her even stronger), leaning back into the hands you automatically lift to support her and smiling, bright, brilliant, Robin.

“Robin,” you say, and she leans in, and you _smell_ her, sweat and blood and something like powder…

“Say it again,” she says, breathless hitching words, asking you for something you never would have given and want to (will not ever) take back. Her breath sings against your chin, panting, still _begging_ —

“B,” she whispers, whimpers, “B, please—”

“Robin.” It’s out of you without deliberation or intention. “Robin.” And her hands are tightening and the _sound_ of her is—

“Oh.” Rounded mouth and you think her eyes must be too, under her lenses. Blue eyes. They _all_ have—

“Oh!” again, rocking up into you, gripping you with her legs and riding your lap, your _armor_.

“Put,” she says, gasps, “put your _hands_ on me, B, I won’t break, ever,” and you believe her, you _do_ , and you give her your hands, your _gauntlets_ because she’s Robin and they’re what she wants. On her cheek and over her heart, cupped around the armoring, your thumb on the R…

And, “Robin,” _again_ , and she’s laughing again. And, “ _Mine_ ,” because she is, she—

“Yes, yes, yes,” she chants in your ear, her cheek pressed against the cowl, so young, so _soft_ , but not untried, not—

“ _Yours_ , B,” and her mouth, so close to yours, and she’s pressing your hand hard into the R over her breast, pushing your other hand down between her legs, tugging at her tights. “Yours, you can do, you can—”

She’s wet inside. You can’t _feel_ but the slide in is easy and then her muscles tighten, grip your fingers, and she’s—

“Oh _god_.”

She’s kissing you, as wet, as strong as she is everywhere else, around your fingers, gripping your legs, clamping _down_ —

Sighing her relief into your mouth. Sharing with you the taste of her pleasure.

Her forehead rests briefly on your shoulder, and then you’re sliding your fingers free, slippery slick, and you know the soft sound she makes will echo through your dreams for at least a month.

She lifts her head so you can see the tilt of her mouth. Pleased, though not so much with herself as with—

“Think I’ll take another shot at the course,” she says as she slides off your lap, pulling her tights back into place.

“Yes,” you say. “You’re ready for the fourth level.”

She groans, but it’s not a protest. Acceptance and… something new. Something you’ve been listening for without knowing you were listening.

The training course hums to life. Running footsteps, flap of her cape and the staff, connecting with her target—

Laughter free of regret.

You look down at your hand. Watch your fingers curl in, clench. Release.

You can still smell her.


End file.
